


Alex

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Alex muses about life and relationships after the events of "The Red and the Black." Smut Ensues. (ARCH.NOTE: Story originally posted and archived in 1998)





	Alex

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Alex by Te

ArchiveX: 17 July 1998  
Alex  
by Te  
4/98  
Disclaimers: All and sundry belong to the people at Fox, 1013 Productions, and a man named Chris Carter. I mean no harm, O Great Ones; pay no attention to my insignificance.  
Spoilers: Small ones for Piper Maru, Apocrypha, Terma, and The Red and the Black  
Summary: Alex muses about life and relationships after the events of The Red and the Black. Smut ensues. M/K.  
Ratings Note: NC-17 for explicit m/m sex and poor language.  
Thanks/Acknowledgments: First and foremost to Alicia, whose patience with my (ahem) artistic temperament truly knows no bounds. An editor, an obsessive of the best kind, provider of marvelous lines, solver of word puzzles, and an all around cool individual. Thanks also go to Cici, Dreamerlea, and Admarem for oodles of help and encouragement with this little experiment, and to the denizens of ATXC as well. All remaining errors are, of course, my own, and feel free to call me on them at .

* * *

Alex  
by Te

****

Not again, never again. For longer than I care to think, those words have been a constant in my life. I won't let this happen again, I'll never feel this pain, I can do it, I'll move on. I'm reluctant to embrace Nietzsche unreservedly, but he had his moments... And so I survived, deriving a bitter satisfaction from each setback, accepting the inevitable disappointments as backhanded benedictions. It would all be right, someday; I was strong and would be made stronger. Yes, that was it, my life was a refining fire and I was being prepared. For something. Do you see how it went, I wonder? Can you imagine it at all, that after a certain amount of time I would start to welcome the pain?

Maybe I should explain myself a little better. Have you ever gotten a fairly bad cut? You know the kind I mean, a slice along, say, your leg--deep enough to bleed but nowhere near severe enough to go to a hospital. You curse your clumsiness, and limp off to the bathroom to treat it. In the medicine cabinet there's a can of Bactine and you heft its cool weight in your palm for a moment, maybe even touch it lightly to the hurt, but in the end you put it away again, and reach for the rubbing alcohol. 

There's nothing at all comforting about the bulky plastic bottle. It's just a little too big to be held with ease, and, though smooth, it's slickness is dull. There's a little catch in your belly now, 'cause you know *exactly* what it will feel like on the wound, but you twist the top anyway and splash it on the cut, wincing in anticipation. But you don't feel anything at all in those first seconds, and, despite yourself, the tension leaves your muscles. It's almost as though the pain has a mind of its own, some vicious, mindless life, waiting for just that second to get you... I think you would cry out, or at least gasp. And the sear would tear through your soul for a little eternity... 

Do you ever wonder if that's what true immortality is? That place you go to, all alone, when there is nothing but the hurt and time stretches like so much taffy? But that's neither here nor there. See, what I was trying to say is that you welcome the pain, invite it even, because it serves a purpose. The wound is clean. Yes, the Bactine would have done the same thing, but it's nowhere near as satisfying. No tangible process. No fire. You understand. 

And that's how it went for many years; shivering under rough wool, I would dream of the day when I would stand proud under a warrior's, a king's...*my* sun. Blind and screaming and ever so hideously not alone, I would dream of bright solitude and the solid weight of innumerable keys on my chest. Bruised and aching at your feet, I would dream of gentle hands, fingers soothing and always, always I would be on high. Strong. Tempered and hard--but merciful, for had I not suffered as you did? 

But then there came a night when I was given a job of relative ease, a bargain for another few weeks to gamble and scheme and... dream. I had only to convince you of what you had always so desperately wanted to believe. A rabbit in your path. Wily to be sure, but grown old and fat and complacent. I could *see* the gleam in your eyes, Mulder. Finally, *finally* someone giving you what you wanted. 

I treasured the fantasy for much too long, I know. That note, our usual banter... it was all going according to script. Better, really. Do you have any idea how long I'd waited to see you that way? A luscious sprawl of *you* at my feet, relatively undamaged? But you fucking wouldn't believe me. It was almost absurd to hear you denounce everything you were. You shocked me, Mulder, and that's not easy to do these days. What could I do? Clearly, words weren't getting through, and a beating, while richly deserved, (Were you really smiling in the car that night? At hurting me?) would be worse than useless. So I kissed you, nipping lightly at your cheek. And, as I left, I watched you splinter a little and wondered if whatever reaction I caused in that weird fucking head of yours would get your ass to the base, where it belonged. But that's when *my* troubles started, damn you.

All right, maybe it isn't fair to blame it all on you. There was a time when I was in college and I was cruising. Just... cruising. It hadn't taken me very long to figure out the system there, to realize that I could pretend to be one of them very easily. A new place, no baggage, no history. It was my first taste of my dreams. Everything was so easy, Mulder. The courses, the sports, the beautifully oblivious boys and girls... Oh, I *savored* the blandness of the place. Smooth and cool and liquid and I wound my way easily, like water, like a knife through the butter softness of an old man's belly, and I smiled... 

But something went wrong, of course. I didn't understand it then, but I think I do now. Did you ever play rugby while you were at Oxford, Mulder? I wonder. You would have made a fine wing, I think. The aristocratic indolence of a lion in the tall grass--until you got the ball in your hands. Then you would break free, dodging and weaving through those lesser backs, all of *you* focused on the try... You don't even feel the hit that cracks those two ribs. Not at first. I can see you there, you know. Leaping from the green of the pitch, divots in your hair, cleat burns on your thigh and utterly triumphant. You don't make the try but you *know* it'll only take one more push. And then suddenly it's half-time. You catch your breath just inside the sideline, not even bothering to call for water. The B-siders wait their turn to serve you (as always). But then you stand again and suddenly you can feel it, burning, tugging at your insides, and it brings you to your knees. It has a life of its own. That's what happened to me, at least. As usual, I made it through. But it worried me, Mulder. There was no wound, no break to excuse the pain that refused to admit the basic illogic of its presence and leave me be. 

However, I was talking about you. For the life of me I just could not figure out what was up with you. A few choice words from someone you had no reason whatsoever to trust and suddenly you're worse than Scully. And then when I forchrissakes *kiss* you, a move that should've at *least* made you *try* to hit me you just sit there. You can't tell me it *surprised* you, Mulder. I never made any secret of how much I wanted you, or certainly not one too difficult for you to figure out. 

And then I'd get to thinking about what *else* your little non-reaction could've meant. That maybe you wanted it, wanted more. And wouldn't that just screw the pooch? Did you always want it? Is that why you never called me on all that skippy flirting? 

And there it was again. *Another* mistake on my part when it came to you. How could I have missed something so *basic*? You must think I'm a complete idiot, Mulder. I mean, really, do you know how young I would've died if I acted around everyone the way I do around you? Thinking about *that* made it even worse, of course. I couldn't just let it alone, promise myself to do better. Oh no, I had to worry that bit of self analysis to death. 'Cause I splintered too, Mulder. That's why it took me so long to come back. I found out almost immediately about how you'd rallied your one-woman troop and stormed the base, but I had to make a decision about how to deal with our situation first. Tunguska taught me to be careful with my body around you... and now--belatedly--I knew to be careful with my mind. 

It was good to see you being more cautious, gun drawn and checking all points before entering your apartment. But nobody ever had to teach me how to stay still. Of course you holstered your Sig, and as soon as your hands were occupied with the removal of your trench I raised my own gun. I told you we needed to talk. You insulted me. I disarmed you, cuffed you, and sat you on the couch with your ankles tied to the table before trying again. You glared. I perched on the coffee table and I bet I sighed... I suppose I always knew it would have to be this way, but it still disappointed me. Really, Mulder, was it so wrong to hope for a little clarity, a little ease with you? I think I must've said that out loud, or something like it, because I saw your face change for just an instant afterwards... Too quick to catch beyond its obvious difference from the anger and disgust. It made me tired to watch the walls come back up again. I could see hours of this useless, pointless angst stretching ahead of me, but I didn't want to leave... A taste of control can be addictive, you know. 

I slid to the floor and knelt between your legs, closed my eyes, and rested my cheek on your thigh, gun nudging you squarely in the abdomen. I imagine you were cursing then, but anger sounds like so many things, really. It was easy to melt your words down to the basic sounds, easy to write my own script for it... all bright sun and comfort. Your voice, the stillness of the apartment... I was stoned on the syrupy laziness of the moment and I dozed, finger on the trigger, surrounded by your warmth. Well, that was another mistake, because I dreamed about you... 

They say you're color blind... what does that mean, though? Is something missing or is it just that you see the colors differently than most of us do? Is it your own private sanity when you dream, Mulder? Visions banal in subject made wondrous by the impossible shades they're dressed in? I suppose they aren't at all special to you, but I would dearly love to see your dreams somehow.

My own had all the subtlety of a brick, I'm afraid. Of course, you must have let me sleep for quite some time for your trousers to be that wet. What was it like when you felt my lips against you? Was it obvious that I was sleeping? The barrel of my gun... had it started to bruise you? Did you really moan, or was that part of my dream? I think it's more likely that you held yourself still and silent at first... shock and fear being a more logical reaction than my Ganymede's instant arousal. Definitely still, anyway... in my dream you were uncharacteristically passive, forcing me to be much rougher with you than usual. It was amazing to me that the gauzy netting around our bed could show more life than you did on that windless Cayman night, that, for once, I could hear the cries of that awful African grey louder than your own. Unbelievable. Demanding analysis, struggle. But when you started to buck against me I relaxed; here was my beautiful, my precious whore. 

"Krycek! Please--"

No, no, no... that was wrong. You had promised to always call me Alex... and the harsh cry coupled with the suddenly noticeable scent of your fear yanked me from my dreams. I flung myself away, the edge of the table wringing out my own grunt, and I saw you. Flushed and panting. In revulsion? Or for the feel of teeth along your shaft again? You were struggling against the cuffs, Mulder, and the play of muscle beneath your clothes... well, it was very hard to focus on your eyes. But what I saw there... I rose to my knees again, to continue, but you said no. I wanted to explain to you the inevitability of it all, that this moment could only ever happen once, that the need we felt was as right as anything could ever be between the two of us, but I could only gasp your name. 

It was enough. Even in the muted light from the street I could see the flush rise from under that perfect collar over your stubbled cheek. I needed to feel it, too. I stood and slowly straddled your thighs on the couch. Will you even remember that you'd spread them wider for me at some point? That I had to nudge them together a little to get comfortable? You arched away from me, but that only brought your groin hard against mine. Your eyes fluttered closed with your groan and I could finally take the kiss I'd been dreaming of for far too long. You kept trying to push yourself backwards, though. Oh, I can tell myself it was just because you longed for that mango sweet contact between our cocks, but at that point it really didn't matter anymore, did it? Or, at the very least, not after I grabbed your head to pull your mouth to mine. 

What was it about that touch that made your decision? Ah well, I suppose I'll just have to remember that spot. You collapsed loosely against the back of the couch, not trying to escape, but positioning yourself in such a way as to allow me maximum access to your body. I closed my eyes, Mulder. I couldn't help it. I knew that if I actually saw you offering yourself to me, rubbing yourself against me, shoulders yanked painfully back by the cuffs, I wouldn't have been able to deny you anything. I didn't dare untie you because if you had tried to resist me then...

But let me tell you about your kiss, instead. All I could taste was salt. No, that's not quite right, but the taste of you was utterly undefinable. It made my mouth ache for more even as I struggled to find an analogy. Perhaps you should keep a thesaurus in your night table? Once again, it was nothing like my dreams of you. Oh, the slow, melting burn of our contact was the same, and it wasn't long before your tongue developed the reason-annihilating talent of my dream-lover, but you didn't taste of bananas, or the broiled and lemony tang of those succulent island fish... you hadn't been eating right. The intrusion of my far too obvious obsession with food made me laugh into your mouth and I pulled away, your head falling bonelessly against the black leather when I removed my hand. I must admit some measure of satisfaction at the anger in your eyes right then. You must have thought I was going to leave you like that, Mulder. As if I could. 

But I let you suffer there while I shaped my face to bland amusement and hoped desperately that all that time in Russia hadn't completely obliterated my ability to hide a flush. You started cursing me again after a time... did you feel your immortality at that moment, Mulder? I let you rant until that damnable "Krycek" came out again... I hate the way that name shapes your mouth, the way you seem to revel in and exaggerate the natural snarl. I reached over and found your hardened nipple and gave it a cruel little twist. I'd been expecting a gasp, or more curses, so I was entirely unprepared for the taut bow of your torso, for the shuddering groan so deep I think I felt it in my fingertips better than I heard it. I could feel my legs start to give. My "Call me Alex," meant to be a command, came out pathetically hoarse and pleading. Your gaze locked onto mine and I found myself petting the hurt I'd given you, my body betraying my need to soothe even when my mind was hopelessly adrift.

"Untie me, Kr-- Alex,"

I saw us in another time, another life, Mulder. The air was chill, but we were surrounded by rolling hills. Browns, and reds, and golds, a breathtaking explosion of color. You know, I've always felt Spring was somehow wrong for fertility rituals. All that endless green... everything else in nature shows its desire to mate by a limitless capacity for decoration, from the garish to sublime. I could smell you, sharp and masculine under the soft tan leather of some hapless animal's hide. Your hair was wild past your shoulders and that other me reached to pluck a crackling leaf from its length... only to find my palm resting against your cheek.

"Please, Alex... I need to touch you..."

I hope you would believe me if I told you how hard it was for me to shake my head in refusal. What I had done to you, what you had done to me until, now, even *now*, I couldn't trust you... I had dropped my eyes again at that point. I began to undo your shirt, the process painfully slow and difficult, but at least with my inability to look anywhere near your eyes again there was less danger of losing my focus. 

When I finally got those damned buttons undone, I kissed you quickly, and moved to tuck the ends of the smooth cotton around your wrists. I felt a twinge at the sight of the chafed line left by the cuffs, and I must've paused. The next thing I knew you had launched yourself at my chest, mouthing and nuzzling me through my t-shirt. Oh Jesus, Mulder. I was frozen under the assault, looking past your mobile head to see flashes of those beautiful fingers working ceaselessly amidst the puddle of your clothes. I knew I couldn't wait much longer to feel them on my body. I wrenched away from you again and this time you moved to follow me. When I reached to push you back down you shook off my hand irritably.

"All right, all right! We'll do this your way, Alex. Just... just please hurry."

I was wrong, Mulder. I don't ever want you to stop surprising me. I stripped as quickly as possible, only pausing at the t-shirt. Once again I couldn't make myself catch your eyes. *I* had had time to get used to it but you... I forced myself to look a question at you. I think you must've understood because you only nodded slowly. I pulled off the shirt, keeping my gaze just over your shoulder. When you carefully stood up I tried to back away, but I had trapped myself in front of the coffee table. You didn't say a word, just shuffled as close to me as you could, and kissed me so softly... You started whispering then. I started shaking, desperate not to hear your apologies, and you kissed me harder, no teasing, no pity at all. I could feel you against me, smooth skin, hardened nipples brushing my own, rough wool and heat on my bare sex... You finally broke the kiss and I immediately scrabbled for the key to the cuffs. I figured if you changed your mind at that point I would just die anyway. 

You turned away to give me easier access to the cuffs, then faced me again with them in your hands, a wry smile on your face. I read you loud and clear. Another time. Pervert. You tossed them aside and pushed me to the couch, taking up the position I had so recently vacated. At first I could control myself against the sensation of being devoured. I let you set your own pace and it was a slow one... almost tentative, but once you realized I would remain still your hands left my hips and began to roam. When they finally strayed close to my lips I grabbed at them, mimicking the torture you were inflicting on my cock as best I could while massaging the throbbing pulse at your wrist. It made you hum around me, and that was when I started to lose it. 

I'm glad you don't speak Russian, Mulder... I'm not at all sure how you would have reacted to the names I called you, as lovingly meant as they were. And then you pulled off, and it was only the vision of those lushly, decadently swollen lips that kept me from switching to English before you made your desire clear. Push forward? I can do that. I thought you would go for my cock again. No, I *hoped* you would go for my cock again. In truth, I had no fucking clue what was going on in your head, and I think it would be safe for you to assume that I am exaggerating the coherency of my own thoughts. You commanded me with a glance... Yes, I'll keep my eyes open for this, for you. Whatever you wanted, Mulder. You kept your gaze riveted on my own, squeezing hard on my balls when my eyes threatened to close again at the excruciatingly slow approach of your mouth. You raised your other hand to my lips again and I took your fingers eagerly but you stole them away again. I felt so empty without them, and when you avoided my cock altogether... I *know* I didn't finish that thought, Mulder. Here's what I remember clearly: 

A shock so cold it burned... dark, deep water... struggling not to take the sea into my lungs but there was salt on my tongue and it was so cold, oh, I could drown it would be right somehow but... there was a bright patch and I bucked and strove toward it anyway and I saw the weak beams of sunlight wink on my fins for the very first time... I saw the gleam of sweat on my stomach, pooling in my navel and I swam for the light and it was like the blood on my lips so warm but the fisherman stabbed and you stabbed me again and again oh god it's too much I'll die do it again...

Your hand joining mine on my cock jolted me back to awareness, but you never stopped what you were doing, just twined your fingers through mine and gripped hard, forcing me to the rhythm *you* wanted and it was frustrating and infuriating and absolutely perfect and then it was over and I think maybe I got a glimpse of the colors of your dreams. God, listen to me. I can't even remember it without losing all track of what I want to say... Ah well, it's not as though I was anything like coherent then. 

I regained consciousness to the rake of your finger across my prostate. Jesus, Mulder, will you be my travel alarm? Oh, it was definitely much too soon but your need was written all over your face, and the only protest I made was to ask to be allowed to lay flat for you. You obliged, of course, kissing me in apology for having to run off for lube... 

I still haven't let myself dwell too deeply on that, Mulder... I expected you to make a dash for the bedroom, but I suppose that would have been a little too predictable. No, you made a beeline for your *desk,* and from my position on the couch I could see diskettes, pens, and random bits of paper flying around your living room. And then you were settling yourself between my thighs again, a half-full tube in your hand (Mental note: Hack your porn files.) and the smile that's been burning through my dreams full on your face. There should've been grass in your hair. 

I asked you to fuck me, Mulder. But even though you nodded and bit your lip in lust at my words, you didn't do it. Kisses, pets, strokes, tiny nibbles... nobody had ever sucked my toes before and you had been hard for so long... I was begging before you finally entered me, and still you tried to take it slow. Did you get off on my pleas? No, wait, that question is a lie. There's nothing like being made love to as thoroughly as I was by you to take a huge chunk out of your cynicism. So much for being careful with my mind, eh, Mulder? 

What I really wanted to ask is, Why? That's it, just why. I tried to ask you over and over that night, but you just ran your thumb over my mouth and slowly, so damn fucking wonderfully slowly found your rhythm. God, I can still feel you. I think I'm blushing. Dammit, *blushing.* That vein throbbing in your throat, the creak of your fingers digging into the leather just to the side of my head, the whisper of my name on your lips... 

It was too much for me, Mulder. I know you were surprised to feel me bear down on you. You groaned so loud I started to worry about the neighbors. You tried to say something... Maybe ask me why? But I pulled you down and sucked the words in with my kiss, gripping you in steady pulses inside me. You were gasping and sobbing into my mouth, clearly unwilling to break the seal of our lips enough to take a full breath. I think I could've come like that, but I knew it wouldn't have been enough for either of us. So I released you to give me what you thought I wanted...

When you pulled out, all the way except for the very head of your cock--it was just like the alcohol. I thought I knew what it would feel like to have you drive into me and I contracted it against involuntarily, but you waited for just that moment... and I screamed. Wrong again, and you would think I'd really be used it to it by now. This, *this,* was true immortality, joined to you perfectly, every nerve ending igniting from the spark of your entry, every ocean aflame, steely resolve melting to slag and oh you looked so beautiful straining above me... 

You passed out immediately. I have no idea why I didn't, but it was nice to cradle you with my body, even nicer to be able to (wincingly, I assure you) pull away to find a blanket for you. I sat and watched you sleep for a long time, Mulder. Got thoroughly disgusted with myself, too. Finally I just picked up this pen and started writing. Will you be angry when you wake up and find me gone? Can you understand at all that I sincerely hope you are? I meant to just write a quick note, but you know how these things go... sometimes you have no choice whatsoever as to where the pen takes you. 

What I really wanted to say is that I have no idea what I want to say. Snort. How's that for profound? How's this: We have a lot of work to do to make sure that the world doesn't end. Funny how you forget things like that, sometimes... 

Anyway. No more tangents, I swear. We have a lot of work to do, and we'll need each other's help. I know there are a lot of wrongs between us, Mulder, but I think we've proven that we can put them aside, if only to take care of the business at hand. Are all those we's presumptuous? Better not be. 

I'll be around, Mulder. I think that's what I'm trying to communicate with all this nonsense. I'll be around.

Alex

******

Feeeeeed me! T� at 


End file.
